


Kalopsia

by Terminallydepraved



Series: Works for Others [14]
Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Abandonment, Angst au, Blood, Character Death, Loss, M/M, arcadia in chrollo's pov, one-sided feikuro, vague sexual content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-20
Updated: 2016-11-20
Packaged: 2018-09-01 00:21:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8599687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Terminallydepraved/pseuds/Terminallydepraved
Summary: The only selfish thing Chrollo ever allowed himself was Hisoka.





	

**Author's Note:**

> blame nico for this since they commissioned it

The proper start to any story was always the beginning. That was simply universal truth. Chrollo, though he couldn’t read or boast of knowing all too many stories, could at least admit that he knew that much.

Kicking at the piles of rotting garbage under a sun far too close to care, Chrollo wondered though. What was the beginning? Was it the most important event? The birth of the person? If someone’s story needed a beginning, then how far back did one have to go to find it?

If asked, he couldn’t tell when his own would begin. His life was here, in a place that cared little for beginnings, though it certainly brought about enough ends with its heat and dry and ruthlessness. Chrollo wiped the sweat from his brow and hopped over a mound of what used to be a car, puzzling out the answer behind his eyes.

He supposed, if pressed, he could consider his first night alone as the start, if only because abandonment at that age usually spelled death instead of survival. It was a difficult place to live for anyone, but for a small, underfed child, that went doubly so.

Chrollo wrinkled his nose though at that thought. He’d been an awfully boring seven-year-old. Who would want to read a story about some little kid eating from the garbage? No, that would make a poor beginning.

The sun beat down on his back, nearly a physical weight. He’d need to get back towards his side of the slums soon, before he wandered too far from home. With a sigh, he turned his face into the sun, grimacing at how poorly planned his path was to result in this sort of miserable walk back. At least he had his thoughts to entertain him as he went.

His first theft? His first fight? Chrollo went over the memories one by one, judging their worth and merit before tossing them aside one by one. None of these were good! They all felt cliché, too run-of-the-mill. Any slum-rat worth their salt could have that kind of story. Chrollo wasn’t cocky, he didn’t feel himself beyond anyone else, but if it was going to be his story told, he wanted it to be a good one.

With his hand up to shield his eyes, he could just make out the crumbling, moldering stone ledge that served as a boundary marker between his side and the looters’ side. It’d been a wasted trip going out so far, but at least now he knew that in that direction lay nothing of worth. He’d have to try his luck somewhere else tomorrow. He didn’t have much food left, at any rate.

His stomach growled but Chrollo ignored it, too used to the feeling to give it more attention that it already took. He had some water back in his camp, and probably some of those small oranges he’d managed to find growing on that withered tree a few days ago. It wouldn’t fill his stomach, but it’d be enough to fill the void until he found something worthwhile to trade in the slum.

The ledge was a lot nearer now, and the sun chose that moment to recede a bit behind a cloud. Chrollo’s eyes adjusted, and then they narrowed.

What was that kid doing over there?

Everyone knew this was his side, so he almost never saw looters coming so close to the line. Chrollo chewed the inside of his cheek, jumping onto the ledge to peer over for a better look. Whoever he was, he was getting awfully close to Chrollo’s little stash of toys.

“That’s mine!” Chrollo shouted, unable to hold back when he saw the thief bend down, lifting his raggedy book from the dusty nook he’d hidden it in. He’d never found another book before, and he couldn’t bear to see some no-name steal it away before he’d even gotten a chance to learn what it said.

 The stranger didn’t jump, but he did give him a look, showing off his strange, golden eyes. “I don’t see your name on it,” he shot back, hands on his hips. He stood taller than Chrollo, but then again, so did most.

Chrollo more than made up for the difference in height with his glare. “That’s the lamest come back I’ve ever heard. Did your mom pick it out for you like she did those clothes?” he asked, lifting a brow.

The kid glowered, balling his hands into fists at his side. “What’s your problem? I was just looking at it,” he bit. “If I wanted a book I’d just go get one in town.”

“Then why are you messing with my book?” In town? Why on earth was someone like him in this part of the slum? A closer look revealed that he was in fact wearing nicer clothes, ones that weren’t more hole than fabric like some of Chrollo’s were. “What are you doing around here in the slums, city-boy?”

“Not stealing, if that’s what you’re so worried about,” he sniped, crossing his arms.

He rolled his eyes. Someone with money and a cushy city life probably didn’t need to steal anyway. “That’s good for you since if you were, I’d have to kill you,” he retorted, more for the dramatics than for an actual warning. If he really planned on killing him, he wouldn’t tell him beforehand.

To his utter surprise, the boy laughed at him. Deeply, loudly, and irritatingly cocky, he laughed. “You’d have a fun time of it,” he taunted, cocking his head and popping his hip, confident in a way that said he didn’t think Chrollo could do much of anything. “I’m a hard one to keep down.”

Now, Chrollo wasn’t the type to give in to taunts or insults, but the way he grinned seemed to beg for a surprise. He smiled and struck the second the boy blinked, giving him no time to prepare or block. Fist met chin and the boy toppled over, tripping over the garbage and detritus beneath his feet. A city-boy like him probably never developed the balance of slum-rats, or the cutthroatedness.

But Chrollo wasn’t done yet. He leaped on the boy and hit him again, raining down blows until he finally gathered himself enough to retaliate. The boy kicked out at him, sending Chrollo to the dirt to fight like angry cats hell bent on scraps.

“What the hell is your problem?” the boy demanded, grabbing him by the wrists to try and stop Chrollo from tearing him to pieces with his nails.

He looked so out of breath and so woefully unprepared that Chrollo couldn’t help but smile at him. “I took you down pretty easy, I’d say,” he laughed breathlessly, ramming his knee into Hisoka’s gut until his grip loosened enough to scramble away. “Maybe you’re not as good as you think you are, book-thief.”

The strange boy coughed and held his bruised stomach, his shoulders hitching like he was laughing through the pain. His red hair was as dark as the blood disappearing into the dry, dusty ground. “My name’s Hisoka,” he grunted, pushing himself back up on his feet. “And I wasn’t stealing your damn book.”

Was he still on that? His cheeks were beginning to ache from smiling so wide. What a fun boy, he thought, edging closer. What an interesting find. “Well my name’s Chrollo and I still knocked you down,” he reported, loving the strange look his words incited. He held out a hand and grinned when Hisoka finally took it.

The warm, strong hand clasped his own, and Chrollo pulled him up.  “Pleasure to meet you, Chrollo,” Hisoka managed, his voice wavering in a way that didn’t suggest pain.

“Pleasure’s all mine, Hisoka,” he felt himself say, a bit of blood running down his cheek, dripping down to join the rest in the dirt below.

And the odd thing was that it really, really was.

The days that followed were wonderful, strange, and woefully short. Hisoka was wild, like untamed fire, and kind, like the rain. Candy danced on his tongue and Chrollo wondered if Hisoka were the start of his story.

When warm, nervous lips brushed his own, kissing him like something that could disappear, he was sure he’d found his beginning, middle, and far off end. The words were sweet and the meaning warm, his heart racing every time he thought of his friend. Thanks to Hisoka, he could read it all now. This was one book he couldn’t bear to put down.

But why did he feel so cold?

Chrollo wrinkled his nose and turned onto his side, tugging the blankets tighter around his shoulders. “Hisoka?” he mumbled, missing the familiar warmth against his back. “Hisoka, I’m cold.”

There was no response.

“Hisoka?” he called again, clearer this time, opening his eyes though the light streaming in was near blinding. Chrollo rubbed at his sleep-crusted eyes with the meat of his palm, willing his vision to adjust. “Are you here?”

It certainly didn’t seem so. A cursory touch proved cold, any body heat from his friend long gone. Chrollo’s lips curled into a frown and he clenched his fingers in the tattered blanket, a kernel of unease settling in the pit of his stomach. Where was he? He hadn’t said he was heading to his job today, or at least not this early.

Biting his lip, Chrollo sat up and looked around the ramshackle shack. The wind outside sang through the holes and gaps in the thin walls, rust eating away at the metal siding with every gust. Running his fingers over the holes closest to him, Chrollo sighed, wondering how much longer this shelter would last. Winter was still far off, and here in Meteor City, the summer was the bigger concern, but he knew well enough how poor he’d fare once the temperature dropped.

Would Hisoka let him come live with him, in the city?

Chrollo’s cheeks heated up at the thought and he let his hand fall, using it instead to cover his face from the empty shack. His cheek stung when he touched it, still livid with an angry bruise, but the pain didn’t mean much compared to the butterflies fluttering in his stomach. Hisoka had asked, multiple times even, but Chrollo had always said no. He liked where he was and the city had never suited him well, but there was no cost to dreaming about what it might be like to live with the one he loved.

“Hisoka?” he tried again, though it was more of a whisper than a call. He wanted a hug, a kiss. Hisoka wasn’t the type to leave him without a word, even if he did get called away at the break of dawn for a job.

His shoulders slumped when there was no answer. He tugged and played with the frayed hem of the blanket, pulling at a loose string. Maybe it was an important call, he decided, pushing away the hurt. He wasn’t so needy to believe that Hisoka didn’t have his own life outside of him.

Instead of ruminating, as he sorely wished to do, he fell back into the bedding, determined to sleep until he returned. If he was lucky, maybe Hisoka would come back with treats for him.

His brow furrowed though when he felt something sharp poking into his cheek. Curious, he opened his eyes and lifted his head, shifting off the offending object. He hadn’t even noticed he had fallen atop Hisoka’s pillow instead of his own.

The cards lay on the makeshift pillow, the rusty stains staring back at him dolefully. Chrollo’s mouth went dry and he threw back the covers, grabbing the deck in his hands. Tacky, dried blood flaked off the box, falling into his lap like ash.

The blood brought him back to rough hands and the scent of sweat, to angry voices demanding he hand them over or get crushed. Chrollo’s cheek ached at the thought, tasting copper that wasn’t there. He’d nearly died for those cards, so it didn’t make sense for them to be here and not with Hisoka.

“Hisoka?” he tried to call, but his voice felt strangled in his throat. Why would he leave these? Even if he planned on coming back, he still would have taken them, right? Chrollo gave them to him, so they were important to him, right?

Ice gripped his heart in a vice as he looked around the rest of the shack, searching for any sign that something had been taken, or moved, or left to indicate why the cards were still here. Their books were still in the corner, the meager food Chrollo had scavenged still hidden in the dug-out whole beneath his bedding. An old, worn sweater lay draped over Chrollo’s collection of scavenged treasures. Chrollo grabbed it and buried his nose in it, breathing in Hisoka’s calming scent as his eyes began to prick with tears.

He hadn’t left. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. Chrollo covered his mouth with his hand and held the cards to his chest, his eyes closed tight enough to send sparks across his vision. His breath came quick. Too quick.

Squeezing the cards until the corners cut into his hand, Chrollo forced himself to inhale. His eyes opened, and he tried to stay calm.

There was nothing to tell him that Hisoka wasn’t coming back, he realized. Maybe he’d just forgotten the deck. Maybe he was going to a dangerous job and didn’t want to risk them getting damaged or stolen. Maybe he wanted Chrollo to wake up to them as a sign that he was soon to return.

Maybe Chrollo just needed to wait for him.

Lungs burning, he let his stale breath ease out, the long unconscious process suddenly so much harder than it had ever been before. He let his head meet the pillow, his eyes trained on the flap of fabric that served as a door. Dried blood stuck to his fingers, but he held the deck all the tighter, the sweater serving as the warmth Hisoka had taken with him when he vanished.

Hisoka couldn’t be long.

oOo

Waiting wasn’t romantic, no matter what the storybooks said.

Chrollo blinked up at the rust-speckled roof of his shack. He managed three blinks before he settled on keeping his eyes closed, tired out with just that. There was no water left to soothe his dry throat, nor food to fill the stomach that had long stopped growling. Waiting wasn’t romantic, he thought, but maybe dying would be. His breaths were coming slower now, so he doubted it would take much longer.

At least, it wouldn’t have if not for Feitan.

Angry, abrasive, us-against-the-world Feitan. Chrollo had never met anyone quite like him before, but he was thankful he had, if only because he couldn’t wait if he was dead.

If Hisoka were the beginning of his story, and of that Chrollo was fairly certain, then Feitan would be the title page. He forgot what it felt like to breathe until Feitan came into his life. What was a story without a title, and what was a life with no breath?

“Are you thinking again?” Feitan sighed, breaking him from his thoughts like a particularly abrasive rock through a delicate, easily-shattered window. “Stop thinking. You think too much.”

“Even if I’m thinking about you?” he smiled, looking tiredly at his companion seated across the table from him.

Feitan frowned, avoiding his eye to look somewhere to the side. “Especially then,” he said, kicking his feet beneath his seat.

Chrollo managed a laugh, wondering why Feitan chose now of all times to be bashful. “Well, lucky for you I can entertain myself in other ways,” he said, bumping his friend’s feet with a gentle kick of his own.

“Do it,” he huffed, kicking back, albeit harder. “It boring here.”

It was, but there wasn’t much to be done about that. They were far from the slums, resting in one of the smaller city centers frequented by the strange, often dangerous travelers searching for work, money, meaning, or some combination of the three. Chrollo and Feitan were somewhere in the mix, looking for opportunities however they may present themselves.

Chrollo fiddled with the empty tea cup in front of him, his drink long gone but for some watery dregs. “I wonder if we should have tried somewhere else,” he admitted, looking out at the crowd of bustling passersby.

Occasionally, and not uncommonly, he’d catch sight of a head of red hair, of a flash of bright gold. Always in pieces and never just right, but it was always enough to make him pause and look twice for a face that was years out of date. His heart lurched and then he winced, a sharp pain tearing up his shin.

“What I say about thinking,” Feitan asked, crossing his arms while he geared up for another kick. Chrollo had a feeling he knew that that time, it hadn’t been about him. “If you going to dream, we go home.”

“Fei, be nice,” he whined a little, rubbing at the bruise he could feel blossoming on his shin.

“No,” he shot back, looking smug.

He opened his mouth to beseech his friend again, but something loud and dangerous exploded in the middle of the crowd, cutting him off before he could so much as say please. Feitan met his eyes and Chrollo beamed at him, pushing off the table to stand up.

“No time to be bored now,” he told him, making for the center of the chaos, Feitan rushing to follow him before he disappeared into the roiling masses.

It was in the dead center of the mess that they found the cause of the disturbance, and for once, Feitan seemed almost apprehensive when Chrollo made to approach. His fingers snatched at his sleeve, holding him in place while he glared at the strange, gangly man who looked more hole than whole.

“Stop that,” he hissed, doing his best to yank Chrollo back. He wasn’t successful, but he tried. “Stop smiling.”

“I want to talk to him,” he said, moving forward, dragging his friend along with him. What sort of life led to a human looking like that? What sort of power did that body hold? He had to find out.

If nothing else, Chrollo was a slave to his curiosity. Feitan kept by his side no matter where it took them, a hand on his sword and his face arranged in a hostile glare. Chrollo couldn’t help but smile at him when he got like that. Feitan cared enough to stay by his side, which was novel, different, and more than Chrollo deserved, especially when he kept dragging him into dangerous situations.

“One of these days you find some freak who not nice,” he would say, looking up at him soberly. “One day, you regret this.”

“Probably,” Chrollo would agree, shrugging off his coat to wrap around the shoulders of the shivering, blood-soaked girl. “But until that happens, I have you to keep me safe.”

Machi, Phinks, Shizuku, Franklin: they kept meeting more humans with fantastic abilities, befriending them and empathizing with them, but with no goal or reason why. Chrollo could say it was to sate his curiosity, but there was merit in what they were doing, in the loyalty his words incited and the desire these misfits felt to belong. It didn’t take long for them to yearn for something bigger.

Chrollo didn’t mind really, when the suggestion came to form the troupe. He didn’t really mind either when they voted him leader. Feitan was at his side every step of the way, and he hardly ever felt lonely now with this new family to care for.

Adding chapters to his story was always welcome, since he was just as lost as the ones he found.

oOo

There was nothing to gain from burying emotions inside oneself.

Feelings were meant to be felt, and that was as simple as it could get. Chrollo understood it, and he knew the pointlessness of hiding his sadness, his anger, his regret, his happiness. If he felt, he showed it, and if he didn’t, he tried not to pretend. Lying to himself would get him nowhere, and lying to the troupe was simply unthinkable.

But, Chrollo now understood, life rarely allowed for such luxuries.

“We’ve got a new member now, boss,” Machi reported, her arms crossed and her normally passive face arranged into a hard mask of distaste. “Omokage was killed.”

Chrollo blinked and closed his book, setting it beside him while he gave her his full attention. “That’s a surprise,” he admitted, tilting his head. He rested his fingers against his lips, wondering what sort of person managed to make it out alive against someone like Omokage. He wasn’t particularly strong per se, but his abilities certainly tended to throw most combatants off enough to assure victory.

Machi grimaced and glared at the floor, looking anything but impressed. “I know the man who killed him. He wants to fight you.” Her face was hard and her voice was harder, imparting the seriousness of her words like bullets shot through glass.

He blinked again. “Me?” he asked, letting his hand fall into his lap. “How on earth does he know about me?” Chrollo would be the first to admit that they hardly kept a low profile, but he didn’t think they’d been so apparent as to announce Chrollo’s existence to the world at large.

Tightening her fists until her knuckles cracked, Machi sighed. “He doesn’t. He knows the leader of the troupe is strong, so he wants to fight you,” she replied, an air of disgust on her face. “That’s the sort of person he is.”

Ah. “Alright then,” he sighed, giving her a calm smile. She needn’t fear for him of all people. “What’s his name?”

Another look of distaste. “Hisoka,” she said sourly, eyes glaring holes in the ruined wall to the left. “His name is Hisoka.” The words rang through the sacrosanct air, bleeding into the rock until it could only be felt and not heard.

Chrollo couldn’t quite breathe. Hisoka? Had he heard correctly? His fingers dug into the stone below him as white noise threatened to swallow him whole. 

Thankfully, Machi kept talking, blind to his shock and deaf to the sound of his heart tightening.

“He’s a floor master at Heaven’s Arena and he never loses. He nearly always kills his opponents, and I’m positive he wants to do the same to you. We’d be better off killing him ourselves instead of letting him join, Chrollo. He’s an idiot but he’s still a threat.”

He heard the words and he certainly understood her concern, but Chrollo didn’t think he cared. He took in a shaky breath and hid it all behind a simple smile, hiding the way his hands shook in the sleeves of his coat. “I want to meet him,” he told her, pretending he couldn’t see her look of utter shock at the admittance. “Bring him here tonight so I can welcome him to the troupe.”

He could see how much she looked like she wanted to argue, but she swallowed it down and nodded, clipped and sharp, before turning on her heel and leaving the crumbling church. A few others watched her go, Phinks letting out a low whistle in the wake of her hunched shoulders and biting aura.

All remaining eyes turned to him. Smiling placidly, he picked his book back up and flipped open to a random page, his hands shaking subtly. Phinks stared at him quizzically, no doubt overhearing the majority of his exchange with Machi. It’d be alright, he thought, turning a page though he hadn’t read any of the words. They trusted him with these sorts of decisions. He knew what he was doing.

Heaven’s Arena was hours away and Chrollo forced himself to pay attention to the book in his hands, needing something to distract him from the memories and anxiety boiling behind his eyes like surface of the ocean during a storm.

Was it really him? Hisoka wasn’t a common name, so the chances were good, but it’d been ten years. He worried his lip with his teeth and lifted the book a little higher to hide it. Would he even remember Chrollo? He’d come to terms with the fact that he’d been abandoned, but would Hisoka even care?

Would he care when he found out the man he wanted to kill was also his first kiss?

All too soon, the sun fell and night rose, the moon sneaking in through the jagged breaks in the crumbling ceiling to bathe the church sanctuary in pale light. Reading became difficult, so he lit a few candles, their soft glow warming him though his stomach felt full of ice.

“Boss,” Phinks called out, shattering the silence they’d all grown attuned to. “Machi’s back.”

Chrollo managed a nod, acknowledging that the time for second guesses and introspection was up. He settled himself on the stone slab, his book in his lap, and waited for them to approach.

Whispers announced their entrance, the troupe taking in their newest member with varied reactions. Curiosity, animosity, disinterest, and cheer colored the dim space, each adding its own note to the tense percussive beat of Chrollo’s heart pounding in his ears. He took in a breath and looked up, staring into the face of the man who’d left him alone ten years ago.

“You must be the new number four, Hisoka,” Chrollo greeted, closing his book and setting it beside him. His hands folded in his lap so they wouldn’t tremble. “I heard you killed Omokage. You must be pretty strong.” And he certainly looked it. He had been a lanky child, tall and with only the first inklings of muscle beginning to fill in his broad shoulders and arms. He looked good, he thought. Healthy, safe, and thoroughly unaffected by the departure that nearly killed Chrollo.

He took a short breath, holding himself back though he wanted nothing more than to fall into him. “Welcome to the Spiders,” he smiled, letting it out with a silent sigh.

Finally, Chrollo thought, losing himself in the sight of warm gold, in molten red hair that framed a painfully handsome face. He took in another effortless breath, dizzy with the feeling.

Finally, he had come home.

oOo

As much as he tried to hide it, it came as no surprise when Feitan was the first to pick up on the change in him. He could try and lie to himself, but he could never manage to lie to Fei.

“Chrollo,” he stated in that flat, pointed voice of his, his eyes pinning. “What is this.”

Feigning ignorance wouldn’t do him any good. He knew it, but he still tried anyway. “I don’t know what you mean, Fei,” he said, trying and failing to hide behind his latest book. Chrollo wished there were others around to distract from this, but he was on his own.

“You know, Chrollo,” he hissed through clenched teeth, pitching his voice low to keep the rest from hearing, though they were probably too far for that to be a realistic concern. Knowing Feitan’s temper though, it was still a safe option to take.

He set his book aside before Fei got so fed up with him that he snatched it away. Surreptitiously, he checked to make sure that Hisoka was nowhere in sight. “Do we have to do this again, Fei?” he asked, pleading with him.

Feitan’s shoulders hunched, his scowl hidden behind his collar. “We do until you stop being idiot, Chrollo,” he said. “He dangerous. He leave you and you keep dying for him. Stop.”

Chrollo’s eyes widened and he moved a hand to cover the stab wound still fresh on his thigh. It hadn’t been serious, but an inch to the right would have severed a major vein. “I didn’t try to die for him,” he whispered, begging for Feitan to understand. “I’ve taken worse for you, for any of the others.” This was how he was. This was how he’d always been, long before the troupe ever formed.

For the first time in his life, he couldn’t read the expression painted across his friend’s face. Hurt, anger, hate, concern…they were all there, but underneath was something else. Something far more pained. Far more personal.

“Stop,” Feitan repeated, his fists clenching in the fabric of his sleeves. “Please, Chrollo. Stop.”

He had no words to say, and he wasn’t given the chance to find them. Feitan turned on his heel, disappearing in the blink of an eye.

It only got worse the longer time went on. Missions came and went, the jobs as dangerous as they always were. Chrollo did what he could, taking what he could so his friends didn’t have to hurt, paying them back for the kindness and trust they put in him by proving that they could rely on him. He’d always played fast and loose with his own safety, so long as it meant they were spared an injury they didn’t have to take.

Once Hisoka was involved though, it stopped being alright.

Chrollo saw the gun go up, the trigger half-pulled, and Hisoka still hadn’t turned. Occupied as he was with his own fight, he wouldn’t see it in time. There would be no dodging, no artful move to avoid and retaliate. His heart stopped in his chest, and Chrollo moved before he’d finished thinking.

The pain was negligible, though no one seemed to believe him. He held the bleeding wound and tried to smile, to show them he was alright. Screams filled the background while the last of the enemies were dispatched, but that wasn’t enough of a distraction to keep the rest from hovering.

“How are you feeling, boss?” Nobu asked, sheathing his sword with a soft click.

Chrollo laughed quietly, ignoring how much it made the wound twinge. “Oh, you know me,” he tried, sweating a little as he waited for Machi to begin sewing him up. “Been through worse. How’s everyone else?”

Nobu took a look around. The majority hadn’t yet finished up yet, still milling around the field, finishing off their enemies or tending to their weapons. Phinks was off by Uvo, his loud voice carrying easily as he bragged about a particularly strong hit he made. “I think they’re doing fine,” Nobu told him, waving at a far-off Feitan.

“What about Hisoka?” he asked, a little breathless. “How is he?”

“Hisoka?” he asked, looking down at him confusedly, his nose wrinkling. Chrollo nodded and he sighed, looking for the bright swatch of color that signaled the magician. “He seems just fine from what I can tell. Looks like he had a good time.”

Chrollo sighed, swaying a little. Nobu came closer, letting him rest against the solid line of his leg. “That’s good,” he gave, closing his eyes. Machi was at his side, her nen thread singing through the air as it began to patch him up.

He could understand Nobu’s curiosity. The others didn’t seem to know about Hisoka, beyond what they’d gathered through simple observation. They didn’t know about their past, or about their present. Not what occurred at night, once all else had fallen asleep. That suited him just fine. Feitan was irritable enough about it, so he didn’t relish the idea of a dozen more voices chiding him for the choices he made.

“Was that bullet meant for him?” Machi asked quietly, pinning him in place with eyes as hard as steel. She always did seem to see through most things, her insight verging on the preternatural. “You should have let it hit him, boss. He’s not worth your charity.”

Closing his eyes, Chrollo breathed in through his mouth and out through his nose. “I’d have done it for any of you,” he whispered to her, opening a single eye to look at her. “Please don’t tell Feitan. You know how he gets when I do these sorts of things.”

Machi scoffed, but didn’t disagree. “He only gets like that when it’s for Hisoka,” she muttered, finishing off her knot. “He’s worried about you. And I don’t blame him. Don’t do it again. Hisoka wouldn’t do it for you.”

He would though, he stopped himself from saying. Hisoka would. He had left him then, but they were together now, and he knew he’d take a bullet for him.

They didn’t know Hisoka like he did, Chrollo thought, staring at the blood dripping from his sleeve. It fell into the dirt, blackening it like soot until it disappeared. One more scar was a fair price to pay to ensure he still had Hisoka there at night to kiss the hurt from his body.

The others were beginning to trickle in, collecting around him for direction. Feitan scowled at his sorry state but said nothing, and Hisoka looked at his pristine nails, his golden eyes flicking over to meet his when he thought no one else was looking. Chrollo smiled, accepting Nobu’s hand to help him up.

“Good job, everyone,” he said, sounding stronger than he felt. “Let’s move on then.”

They had so much farther to go yet before they rested, a new, foreign coast on the horizon for them all.

oOo

When it came time for Chrollo to die, his only complaint was that it could have been warmer.

He wasn’t unduly surprised to be cut down. With the way he lived his life, death was always on the horizon, staring back at him before he fell asleep and there to greet him when he opened his eyes. When Hisoka held him at night, hot and visceral and present in a way that spat in the face of the ten years he’d been absent, Chrollo could almost forget the ever-present stare.

Feitan would be happy, he thought, that when it came to Chrollo dying, it wasn’t to save Hisoka. Chrollo laughed at the thought, spitting blood down his chin. Though maybe he’d just be happier not seeing Chrollo die at all. Feitan seemed to like him alive, after all. If he hadn’t, he probably wouldn’t have wasted his time all those years ago. 

The blood on his chin was hot when it came out, but chilled quickly on his skin. Chrollo shook, wondering how much colder it could get before it just stopped altogether. The pain was negligible for the moment, but he figured that had more to do with shock than with the extent of his injuries. He wasn’t making it out of this one. That was certain.

Unfamiliar stars stared back at him, winking and glistening as he blinked. The dirt stuck to his wet cheeks, but it was okay. He didn’t have anyone to impress. A ripple of sadness coaxed a half-sob from his lips. The others were probably faring no better than him.

He wished he…

He wished he didn’t have to be alone right now.

“Hi…Hisoka?” he breathed, no more than an exhale. _Hisoka_ , he thought, because his thoughts were deafening in comparison. _Hisoka, I’m cold_.

He opened his eyes- _when had he closed them_ \- when warm hands cupped his face, wiping away the blood and dirt and tears until he had to look at least somewhat presentable. _Hisoka?_ He wondered, seeing only blurred red and murky, watery gold.

Moisture fell, and for a moment, he thought it was raining.

“You always look so sad,” Chrollo coughed, finding the strength to talk once he realized they were tears. “You never smile when you look at me. Not anymore.” He wanted to wipe them away, but his hand fell so short. Useless Chrollo, even now, when it mattered most.

Hisoka took his hand though, lifting it to his warm cheek. “I just knew this would happen, is all,” he whispered back, his voice immeasurably sad. Was he scared? Was he hurt? Chrollo wished he could see him clearly, just one last time.

“You always did know so much. More than I ever did,” he managed. Hisoka was so smart. They all were. Chrollo was nothing but glue, keeping them together while they worked their magic and gave him meaning. “Where did he go, do you think?”

“Probably went after his friends,” Hisoka rushed, like he didn’t know or care to know. “Chrollo, I lo—”

And Chrollo found the strength to cover his lover’s mouth, because wasn’t that just rich? If he wasn’t crying already, he’d choose this moment to start. “I thought you couldn’t bear to hear it,” he said, his laugh lost in his weak voice. “What if I can’t bear to hear it either?”

He laughed like a man about to lose everything. Chrollo wanted to hate the sound, but couldn’t bring himself to hate anything. Not the chain user. Not the pain. Not the man holding him, because that’s all he ever wanted, wasn’t it? But Hisoka was still talking, and he didn’t have time to waste hearing the words.

“—That’s so unfair. If you can force me to hear it, I can force you,” Hisoka tried to reason. Chrollo simply smiled, staring past him to look up at the stars.

They used to count them together, when they were still kids. Did he remember? He probably didn’t have time to ask. “Nothing about this is fair, Hisoka,” he told him, though it was as much for him as it was for himself. Nothing about any of this was fair.

But that was it though, wasn’t it, he thought, staring up at a sky as uncaring as the one he was born under. Nothing was fair in this world, but they made the best of it. That was all anyone could do, really.

He felt so cold, even with Hisoka holding him. That wasn’t fair either.

As endings went, he could do worse. Anti-climactic, painful, and with no catharsis in sight. A terrible ending to a lackluster story made bearable only by the players he met and the lives he’d lived. Hisoka was holding him tighter, kissing him now, and that was nice. That was always so nice. He wished he’d had time for an entire chapter of just that.

At least…

A voice in the back of his mind cut through the pain and black, the encroaching dark that oozed cold and tasted like damp.

At least he got to end his story with Hisoka.

**Author's Note:**

> woot and that is the last installment of the arcadia fic series!! bet you guys are happy to be done with my angst aus. anyway, if you liked this and want me to write you something, check out my tumblr (Terminallydepraved) and check my blog for more details. until next time~


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